The Name of the Game

"For me, the hardest part of an injury is watching the races go by that I had hoped to compete in. The only thing that makes it easier is thinking of how certain struggles make other accomplishments mean so much." —Olympian Dathan Ritzenhein

The irony of it all is that running is not on the top of my favourite sporting disciplines. It is the sport where I complain the most, wear a semi-permanent scowl and have the highest heart rate at just the thought of putting on my shoes and going for a run, especially in the cold. And I am no Olympian like the athlete I am quoting above.

After having probably been one of the first to register for this year’s Half Marathon and working on a training programme to prepare myself for it, I found myself having to stay in the side-lines due to a persistent knee injury for which I undertook treatment this week.  

I admit, that not being able to be one of the 2000 waiting for the starting gun heralding the start of the race was a huge disappointment, yet had I been on the starting line I would have been questioning the madness of waking up early, in cold weather to run 21kms.

I was faced with two choices – stay home, have a nice Sunday lie-in, a pure luxury I don’t experience often, or else go give my support to my running buddies.  On my way to Mdina, where the race starts, I see the athletes running the full Marathon. A tinge of disappointment hits me. Ironic no, when I know for a fact that had I been on my way to the start line I would have probably been feeling sick with nerves and asking myself as to why I put myself through this torture.

Inevitably quite a few people look at me surprised at my attire – jeans and boots rather than running shorts and shoes. It pains me to explain the reason and it is quite frustrating at not being able to go and do a warm up, feel the adrenaline build up. But in all honesty I cannot run. I am still recovering.  I look, wistfully at my number, 1654, which is now being worn by my friend Veronica, after I, legitimately, passed it on to her once I realised I was not up to running. 

I feel the butterflies in my stomach as the athletes gather at the starting line. It is the same feeling I get when I am about to start the race. Taking as many photos as I can of my friends, I am making the most of a rare opportunity to indulge in photography, which is a hobby I really enjoy.

Dashing off to find a decent photo site, I drive to a water station in Attard. Positioning myself in a good location, I set my zoom lens, and wait for my friends. As they start approaching I start taking pictures. Some capture pain, others determination.  I call out to each friend who passes me by. Some might not need a word of encouragement, some might be desperate for some.  I know when I am running, a word or shout of encouragement can make me go far and it doesn’t cost anything.

Fast forward to Sliema and the finishing line, I am relieved to see my friends make it.  Some have achieved personal bests, some have just ran their first race. Fatigue and aching muscles are inevitable but the pride on their faces is heart-warming.

Yes I would have given anything to cross that finish line and wear the finishers’ medal, but as my Triathlon Club Secretary and athlete, Euchar Camilleri, put it, “in sport we are as great as we can handle disappointment”.

All things considered, I don’t think I have done too badly today!